


A Breath Of Risk

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not really brush with death, the John in my head jumps to the wrong conclusions A LOT, the Shaw in my head is kind of puerile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: John is sometimes reckless when it's just his own life at stake.He never meant to risk Harold’s.(Angst/Humor)





	

“Finch, you’ve had a long morning, so I brought us an early lunch,” Reese announced as he took steaming boxes of Chinese take-out from a bag and arranged them on an empty worktable. “Any luck yet?”

Finch stepped out of the subway car, rubbing his forehead. “Not yet. If Mr. Reynolds is indeed stockpiling chemical weapons in the city, I still can’t find a digital trace of where they are or where he is sourcing them.”

It had been four grueling days since they’d received this number, and it was taking an inordinate length of time to find the information they needed.

“We’ll get there, Harold,” Reese assured him, wrapping his arms around the smaller man in a comforting embrace.

Harold returned the hug gratefully, then sniffed the air. “Oh, did you go to that wonderful place down the block, again?”

“Yeah. I know I shouldn’t hit Zhang’s Garden so often... But it’s kind of addictive.”

“John, even *I* can throw caution to the wind sometimes if it’s for food _this_ good,” he chuckled.

“You’re not tired of it? It’s the third time this week.”

“Not at all! I could eat this evey day, with the weather as cold as it is. Did you get the hot and sour soup?”

John pulled a clear plastic quart-sized container of brick-red soup out of the bag and set it in the middle of the table. “Of course.” He gave Harold a quick peck on the cheek and went to the makeshift kitchenette area to get some bowls and a couple of sodas.

He was digging in the fridge, trying to find a can of something, _anything_ , besides Pepsi, when he heard a choking moan.

When John turned back around, Finch was on his hands and knees, on the floor near his seat—His face red, tears streaming, snot dripping, a string of bright-red drool running from his lips to the floor. He was gasping, and coughing wet, painful-sounding barks that shook the older man’s entire body.

John dove to his side, heedless of the danger. Chemical weapons. Reynolds must have had someone tailing him, and must have anticipated that he’d go to the same damn Chinese place _again_. Stupid. Reckless. He’d brought a deadly chemical agent right into the heart of their operation. Finch must have inhaled it in the food’s steam.

He threw Harold’s arm over the back of his neck and helped him to stand and walk. He had to get Finch to fresh air, to a hospital. He tried not to think about Harold’s airway blistering, or his lungs liquefying, but the images still invaded his mind.

How to get out? If he dragged the sickened Finch out of their secret snack-machine door, it could draw attention and expose their lair. Not to mention the possibility that Reynolds might have goons outside, just waiting for them to make their exit. But John didn’t have a choice—Finch was going to _die_ without help.

John didn’t dare acknowledge to himself that Finch could very likely die even _with_ help.

As they neared the subway stairs that led to the exit, Finch began to fight back against John’s assistance. He continued coughing and gasping, mucus and red saliva coating the lower half of his face, and pulled away, stumbling back in the direction from which they’d come.

“Finch, we need to get out! Whatever chemical it is, it’s going to spread down here! You need medical attention!”

Finch hurriedly limped over to the small refrigerator and pulled a pint of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer section. Tearing off the lid and the plastic seal, he extended his tongue and pressed it to the cold, sweet relief within. “Ahhhh. Ahhhh. Ahhhhhhhmahgawd,” he moaned.

John stood dumbfounded for a moment. “...That wasn’t a chemical weapon, was it.”

“Nho, Mithdew Weethe,” Harold mumbled, his tongue slowly sinking into the surface of the ice cream.

John went back to the worktable. The lid was off the soup, and a plastic spoon, stained with oily, bright-red residue, lay nearby. “I take it they gave us the wrong soup?”

Harold nodded with his entire upper body and groaned in misery.

“Well, at least we know it’s authentic.”

Finch took a seat a safe distance away from the offending food, still sucking and licking at the vanilla pint, his face a little less red. His nose was still running, but he didn’t seem to care.

Reese quietly cleaned up the droplets of snot and red drool from the floor with some paper towels.

Bear suddenly pranced down the stairs and greeted John, as Shaw arrived not far behind.

John, already crouched down, pressed his face to Bear’s scruff, trying to hide his eyes. While he was certainly relieved that Finch would be all right, coming down from that surge of adrenaline and terror was triggering some emotional release in the form of trembling and tears.

He’d thought that Finch was _dying_ , in one of the most excruciating ways imaginable. He’d felt so helpless. So lost. So terrified of losing the one person in the world who loved him, who gave him a reason to live. And he’d thought it was his own fault.

For those terrible moments, it had felt as though chemicals were dissolving John’s heart into bloody foam.

When he finally pulled away from Bear, black boots were just a few feet away. He looked up and gasped.

“Wait, that’s—!”

Shaw held the quart of soup in one hand and gulped from it as casually as she would a lukewarm latte. “Hu la tang. I’m surprised they were still serving it after breakfast hours, but I’m glad you got some. Chef Zhang makes his more spicy than a lot of other restaurants do.” Another, more thoughtful gulp. “Wait, is this why Finch is eating out my Häagen-Dazs like it’s your hole on Christmas morning?”

Finch made a shocked, offended sound of indignation from inside the now half-empty container. He glared at Sameen through smudged glasses and huffed, still not removing the ice cream from his burning mouth.

John sighed and went from a crouch to a full sit on the hard floor. “I’ll get you more ice cream next time I’m out.”

“No hurry.” Two long gulps of soup. “Your food is getting cold over there.”

“You can have it. All of it.”

Sameen shrugged. “Okay. Thanks.” She sauntered over to the table and opened some of the boxes. “There’s nothing wrong with it, right?”

“It’s fine. I just don’t think Harold or I will want to eat Chinese for few weeks, at least.”

Finch made a noise from deep in the ice cream container that confirmed John was correct.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Sameen took a seat, put her feet up in the other chair, and drained the last of the soup. She then opened a pair of chopsticks and dug in to the kung-pao beef. “You two are so predictable—Always with the kung-pao and mushu. Next time, try the extra-spicy hot pot with blood cake and pork intestine. Number sixty-four on the menu, I think. Now _that_ will burn your face off!”

Harold, his eyes clenched shut, whimpered at the mere concept of something even spicier.

Sameen sucked the sauce off a piece of meat and tossed it in the direction of Bear, who caught and downed it one gulp.

“If that gives him _tummy issues_ , you’re cleaning it up,” Reese warned as he got back on his feet. He set the roll of paper towels on the table in front of her.

“Speaking of tummy issues...” Sameen gave John a meaningful look.

“What?”

“You might want to take Harold home for the rest of the day. What goes in must come out.”

Harold cringed at the thought.

“It was only a spoonful,” Reese pointed out.

“Yeah, but if his body isn’t used to something with that kind of firepower... It could get ugly.”

Finch dropped the empty ice cream carton into the wastebasket, then filled a paper cup with ice cubes for the road, popping one into his mouth. He put on his coat and gathered his things. “I’m taking Miss Shaw’s advice. I’ll work from home.”

“I’ll go with you.” Reese followed Finch up the stairs. Harold certainly wouldn’t welcome his company for what might happen later, but John still felt shaken by the earlier scare. He wanted to get Finch home and help him feel comfortable again. Maybe bring him more ice cream. Or maybe just curl up with him on the bed and hug him for an hour or six, although that would be more for John's comfort than Harold's.

Shaw could take care of the fieldwork for the rest of the day.

As they got into a cab, a safe distance away, John’s phone dinged with a text message.

_Be gentle with his ass for a while._

John didn’t let his annoyance show in his face as he texted back, in case it might arouse Harold’s curiousity.

_You spend an awful lot of time thinking about our asses._

Shaw responded with a ‘tongue sticking out’ emoji and two eggplants.

After a few moments of silence, Finch’s phone dinged. He looked at it and blinked in confusion as he sucked on another ice cube.

“Mr. Reese, what does an ice cream cone, followed by fire, followed by a smiling Hershey’s Kiss, followed by a fire truck mean?”

“It means that Shaw is ten years old and that she can buy her own damn Häagen-Dazs.”


End file.
